


The Past Is A Foreign Country

by Huggeroftrees



Series: Tonker/Lofty [1]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Book: Monstrous Regiment, Childhood Friends, F/F, Gen, Harm to Children, Hurt/Comfort, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 15:42:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huggeroftrees/pseuds/Huggeroftrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories from the Grey House, a pre-Monstrous-Regiment look at the lives of Tonker and Lofty. It will not be pretty, but it might, just might, be beautiful.</p><p>(The warnings are due to implied/reported abuse within the Grey House - as implied by the author.  Nothing is described, merely alluded to.  But I didn't want to take anyone by surprise.  Chapter 7 contains the allusions to things if you want to avoid it)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Normality

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a long explanatory thank you schpiel at the head of Chapter 5, the first chapter I ever wrote in this epic. It wasn't an epic then, just a stand alone snippet growing up around the simple acceptance (despite non-comprehension) of the burden of penance for an unremembered sin that I always associated with Tonker. But reading it over I found the whole thing to be longwinded and interwoven with "My Issues Let Me Show You Them" (which is how both my beta and I have occasionally referred to this work – bless). I took it out, leaving only the following:
> 
>  
> 
> _Thank you Pterry, for writing about these two not as victims but as survivors, for painting as clearly as possible the truth that the events of their past were not the only story they could ever be involved in, for making them like you or me and for giving them an interesting future._
> 
>  
> 
> _You stood up and, in a quiet voice, made the world see something I had thought no-one "respectful" would ever understand. You made it real. You made it something we all will see at some point or other and you made it normal. Or as normal as it could be._
> 
>  
> 
> _For that Sir Terry, I thank you._
> 
>  
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Terry Pratchett owns the characters and the world they live on. I am grateful for all the brilliant books and make no claims of ownership in any way.

_The past is our definition. We may strive, with good reason, to escape it, or to escape what is bad in it, but we will escape it only by adding something better to it._ Wendell Berry

_The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there._ L.P. Hartley

~X~

Magda Halter was sent to the Grey House when she was 4 years old.

She doesn’t know why.

It was very sudden. One day they came and took her away in a big carriage. Her uncle and aunt were relieved when she went. Her uncle especially so.

She doesn’t remember much about living with them. Somehow she doesn’t want to think about that time much, she doesn’t know why but something warns her against poking around in those memories.

She heard her uncle warn them she told lies. That confuses her even now because she knew she hadn’t.

She sat on the too high seat, clasping her small bag of possessions as the coach clattered over the rutted road down into the valley, through the village to the big house with the tall walls. She’s been behind those walls most of her life, and all the parts of her life that she can remember. Some days the newer girls ask her what her crime was. She doesn’t answer them. It’s no-one’s business but her own.

She doesn’t want to explain how she doesn’t remember.

Everyone is there for a reason. Everyone has a story; though some of the crimes she doesn’t understand (those of the bigger girls). She doesn’t have a reason, a name for what she did. All she knows is that she’s a Bad Girl. They say so. They run the Grey House.

When she arrived the priests said she had a devil in her. She didn’t know what that meant then, but now, though she fights against it, she thinks perhaps they were right. She doesn’t tell anyone though. She’s afraid what they’ll do to her to get the devil out if she reminds them.

They didn’t have to take her in but they did. They are teaching her how not to be a Bad Girl. They say she’s lucky they’re kind people. She should be thankful. Sometimes she’s not so sure about that.

She doesn’t have any friends in the Grey House. Most of the girls there are older and live in the senior house, when they’re not out working. _The Gang_ rule the lower house and the girls her own age are either trying to get in, or hiding. They don’t talk to her much, sometimes seeming more afraid of her than of _The Gang_. She doesn’t know why and no-one will tell her. She spends most of her time alone.

Magda is 8 years old, a scrawny thing, not much to look at, too thin with sharp bones, a stubble of ginger hair growing back after her last transgression. She sleepwalks through her difficult world, surviving day to day. It never occurs to her to think ahead. She knows she has no power over her life’s course. What point is there having expectations merely to be thwarted?

This year she will meet someone who will change all that. She doesn’t know it, but the small dark haired girl currently being forced into a carriage, furiously clawing at Father Jupe, will show her a new future as yet unimagined. This diminutive girl will encourage her to live, help her remember how to laugh, and teach her of love, with all its related joys and sorrows.


	2. Abnormality

_The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there._ L.P. Hartley

_The past is our definition. We may strive, with good reason, to escape it, or to escape what is bad in it, but we will escape it only by adding something better to it._ Wendell Berry

~X~

Matilda Tewt was sent to the Grey house when she was 8 years old. She knows what she did, but thinks they’re stupid to shut her away for being able to read and write and for calling the church an Outmoded Institute of a Corrupt Regime. Her Papa taught her that and she knows one day he’ll come back from the war and take her home. She loves her Papa more than anything and wishes he hadn’t gone away.

She hates her aunt, she hates the stupid priest and she hates the square women who held her down and cut her hair. Her Papa loves her hair and he will be so angry when he hears they shaved it all off. She yelled and swore at them but they didn’t listen.

They put her in a horrible dress and the rough cotton itches at the back of her legs. She wants her clothes back, she wants the woman to let go of her arm and right now she wants her Papa something fierce. The tendrils of fear are beginning to tangle round her stomach but she bites her lip to force the tears back and holds her head high as the woman pushes open the large door to the refectory. Noise and smell rush out in a mighty surge.

In the sudden silence all eyes turn to her. Without conscious decision her chin juts out that inch further as she draws herself to full height. It’s that dignified movement that draws Magda’s eye. She doesn’t usually pay any attention to the goings on in the Grey House; girls come and go all the time. But there is something about this small kid trying so hard to stare down the entire room that can’t be ignored.

_ (If this were a story such as those told by well meaning folk in the world outside these walls, the new girl would be surely placed next to her at the table. Without any doubt they would immediately become best friends followed by a series of jolly adventures of a thrilling, but never life threatening, nature. But the cold finger of reality is inserted where fate pleases to alter the make up of the pie. This is the Grey House and there are darker forces than narrativium at work here.) _


	3. Lessons: Physics

To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. _Newton’s Third Law of Motion_

Force and momentum are vector quantities and the resultant force is found from all the forces present by vector addition. This law is often stated as, "F = ma: the net force on an object is equal to the mass of the object multiplied by its acceleration." _Newton’s Second Law of Motion_

A body continues to maintain its state of rest or of uniform motion unless acted upon by an external unbalanced force. _Newton’s First Law of Motion_

~X~

### Action

Hugging her knees to her chest Matilda swallowed determinedly, she was 8 years old and she wasn’t going to cry. She was her papa’s big girl, a Tewt from a long line of Tewts and she was not going to cry. The dust in this old abandoned workshop was making her sniffle, that was all. She knuckled away a traitorous drop making its way down her cheek. From outside you wouldn’t have been able to see her, a small mite scrunched up between ancient machinery (currently employed merrily transferring rust to her rough cotton dress) and the dusty wall. An animal gone to ground. A hiccoughing sob escaped from the retreat and drifted up into the rafters.

She just needed a moment to think away from the constantly staring eyes. Just a moment of quiet to make the shivers go away. Just one moment of peace and she’d be able to work out a plan of action, a plan of escape, or merely even a plan of survival. Wouldn’t she? Sitting there beneath the old iron she wished she could curl up so small she would disappear into the dust mites dancing in the sunbeams.

She probably wasn’t even meant to be here. The meal had dragged on for what seemed like aeons but eventually the girls had been released. Tilda, unsure where she was meant to be, had been carried along in the flow of squabbling girls and found herself deposited outside. There she found not the freedom she’d longed for, but a dank courtyard surround by high walls and criss-crossed by washing lines like the bars of gaol above. Wandering on she had discovered that though the old mill had extensive outbuildings, most spots were already taken by small groups of girls, who turned and looked at her accusingly until she moved away.

There had been nowhere to go.

Huddled there beneath the hulking machinery she was proud that she hadn’t panicked. Through the swirling maelstrom of horror she had reached down to grasp a firm stanchion, stuck her chin out again and kept walking. Let them stare. She was a Tewt. And _Tewts Were Brave_. Papa had said so.

Relatively safe at last, an overwhelming longing for home swept over her. She ached desperately for her papa to come and rescue her from this nightmare. The hot stinging that had been threatening at the back of her eyes overcame her, tears welling up despite her resolve. She was only 8 years old. Betrayed by her youth Matilda snuffled quietly into her knees, determined even now that no-one should know her weakness.

_But kids are resilient things and ten minutes later Matilda was knuckling the last tears away and setting about a plan._

Tewts were big on plans. She and Papa had whiled away many happy hours pouring over detailed notes for snow forts, or long distance explorative river rafts as the weather beat against the windows. The outburst of tears had cleared her head and, despite a headache now threatening at her temples, she was optimistic of her chances of escape. This place would be no match for a Tewt. Sniffing determinedly she wiggled back into the world and set out to scope its potential.

She had been wandering for a good twenty minutes, making mental lists of guttering and drainpipe routes when, lost in her examination of the chapel which sat against the boundary wall, she bumped into something solid. Or someone. Jumping back, her gaze slid up a mountain of a girl and caught dull eyes which lit up with a mixture of recognition and anticipation. Why anticipation? Thinking on that her stomach tightened uncomfortably. Then the mountain spoke, a rumble dropping from on high.

“Chief wants t’see yer.”

Matilda had a strong sense that this would not be a good idea. The villains in the books papa read to her on long journeys always spoke like this before forcibly abducting the heroic private detective[1].

“I’m busy,” she improvised, and took a step back, aiming to dodge around the mountain. But a strong hand shot out and grabbed her arm. Apparently the colossus had been sent not only as a messenger but also as escort to where the villains lay in wait.

It hurt. Too many people had grabbed Matilda’s arm today and she was starting to get annoyed with it. Thinking quickly she relaxed, taking a step toward the girl as though indicating her willingness to comply. _Now, folks got the idea in those early days that because Matilda Tewt was small, quiet and well spoken, she would be easy prey. More fool them_. The mountain responded exactly as expected loosening her grip, and Matilda, reacting quickly, twisted out of her hold.

“I don’t want to go,” she insisted, and because she had been instilled with good manners she added politely: “thank you.”

But politeness made no impact on the mountain and as Matilda attempted to dodge away she found her arm once again in that painful grip. Would the mountain be dumb enough to fall for the same trick twice? As though reading her thoughts the girl twisted the arm up behind Matilda’s back and held it there. Now it really hurt. Panic rising she tried every tactic she knew. Her wriggling and thrashing got more and more frantic but she despite everything she couldn’t manage to escape the firm hold.

Suddenly there was a rush of pattering feet and girl flew out of nowhere, knocking her intimidator to the floor.

[1]Once, when he was asleep, she’d peeked, curious to see how the story ended. It appeared he’d missed out some confusing bits involving ladies.

~X~

### Reaction

_In that moment of shocked silence, Magda couldn’t quite put her finger on why she’d done it. Perhaps it had had something to do with the way the girl had stalked into the refectory, stuck out her chin and taken them all on in one baleful stare._

_At the time Magda had been careful to keep her head down. She’d learnt that lesson well. But she’d not been able to prevent herself overhearing the mutterings coming from The Gang at the top of the table. They were planning something special for the new toy. Up till now she’d made it a point of principle never to get involved in their games. Between her and The Gang there was an uneasy truce of long standing. They left her alone as more trouble than fun and she in return kept out of their business. But escaping the rush from the house, and having no idea what she was planning to do if she found the brat, she had set out wandering the grounds in search of the kid._

_There was no reasoning to it. Thus far Magda had lived her life by reasoned responses to outside actions and it had served her well. It was the only way to survive. There was always a set of laws to follow. You learnt them as quickly as possibly and then you made sure you followed them. You might not like the laws, they might not be fair, they were often disproportional, but they always existed._

_And now she had broken the rules, upset the apple cart, and for what?_

_The brat looked even more fragile up close. Dark haired probably by the look of the stubble. Red rimmed eyes betraying a crying jag, no surprise there. Why did she care about one more victim shoved into the ring? Fair enough the kid definitely didn’t belong here, but neither had others and she hadn’t stepped out of line for them._

_A surge of memories rose up, images she didn’t want to see and pushed away in revulsion, a too small huddled heap, infant cries filtering through into a locked cellar, a glimpse through a half open door at shadows moving against the wall._

_Enough. Things were. That was all. Whatever the reason it was done now._

_Magda took a calming breath. It never quite worked, but some of the panic had faded away. She balanced herself, hands up, ready. A small hand on her arm distracted her for a moment and she looked down into dark eyes as full of apprehension as her own._

~X~

She just stood there, that was what confused Matilda. It had been a lucky impact. The girl, though taller than her, was still tiny in comparison to the mountain. They should be running. After an opportunistic attack against a larger force, the next course of action should always be to retreat and regroup (Papa had been reading Tacticus to her before he went away). Every instinct was to flee, but she couldn’t go without her saviour. It would be impolite.

The girl was just stood there, and the mountain was getting up again.

Comprehension came to Matilda in a bolt of unwanted knowledge. They were going to fight. The girl against the mountain. She couldn’t possibly win.

Why would anyone do that?

Matilda looked around urgently for anyone to come to their aid but the area was deserted. What was she meant to do? She’d never seen a real fight before and though she was more than willing to join in, she had a strong sense that the girl didn’t want her do that.

The two girls circled each other in silence. Matilda wondered for a hysterical moment whether she was supposed to shout “go!” or something or that nature. But the tension was broken as the smaller girl stuck out a foot colliding solidly with the shin of the mountain. It was on.

It was always going to be an uneven fight. Lacking any demonstration of the finer art of boxing through a scientific exchange of punches, it was merely a scuffle in the dust. Despite this the unknown girl gave as good as she got, and Matilda cheered silently as she got in a solid thump to the guts. But it couldn’t last long. The mountain was bigger, could punch harder and reach further. It is a lesson we all have to learn at some point: however much you may want the underdog to win, they rarely do.

The decider came quickly. It was a beauty of a punch, though neither Matilda nor her champion were in the mood to take note. The younger girl was thrown back, her head colliding against the wall with a sickening crunch.

Matilda would never forget the sight of that crumpled heap.

~X~

### Inertia

_Magda came wallowing back up out of the dark. Pain blossoming out from her mouth, hot-wiring along her jaw to join up with the pulsating throbbing at the back of her head._

_Instinct that had protected her all these years was screaming at her to get up._

_Her thoughts shattered. Head hurts. Taste blood._

_She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, helping her to her knees. Someone was talking. Words tumbling down over the sharp daggers in her brain._

_She had to get them out of there. She had to think._

_Glancing up warily she became aware of the darkening sky. Almost curfew._

_She spat into the dust, a shockingly dark globule and shrugged off the helping hand to climb to her feet. “It’s getting dark.” Gratifyingly the words came out clearly despite the pain in her mouth. Jen looked worried but only for a moment._

_Try again._

_“Curfew’s at seven tonight aint it?” Jen looked up at the sky again, nervousness increasing. She pushed home her advantage. “Sister Lenience on duty tonight, so I heard”._

~X~

Sister Lenience? Curfew? Matilda didn’t remember anyone saying anything about curfew. They’d said a lot about cleanliness and sin (unthinking she rubbed a hand over her shorn head) but nothing about a curfew. Though it did make sense now she thought about it, girls at boarding schools always had boundaries and things that they were honour bound not to break.

Observing as the mountain looked nervously over her shoulder at the sky she began to have a smidgeon of an idea that curfew might be something slightly more important here. Matilda had expected concern, apprehension perhaps, but not the naked fear that she caught flash across the big slow face.

The Colossus came to a decision, leaving them as though they were suddenly of little importance to run back toward the Grey House.

“This aint over Tonker! You just wait and see!” The parting shot was thrown back over her shoulder as she disappeared round the back of the building.

Tonker? That was the girl’s name? Matilda turned back to her saviour, on her feet but swaying gently, blood oozing from a split lip. She knew she had to express her gratitude properly; there were standards to be kept up. Papa had always insisted that Tewts said thank you, even if they didn’t feel like it. She was opening her mouth to frame some sort of appreciation when the girl (Tonker, Matilda reminded herself) dropped to her knees and threw up quietly into the rough grass.

~X~

Two figures moved slowly back towards the mill through the dusk. Matilda was struggling with an undertow of worry regarding the whole curfew thing. It hadn’t been her intention to get into trouble on her first day. The girl (it was still easier somehow to call her that as they hadn’t been properly introduced) refused every offer of help, moving painfully as though each step brought her bruises alive again. Matilda had tried to start a conversation, but in reply to her observation that the mountain hadn’t seemed like a very nice person, her companion had stated in a short fashion that this wasn’t a very nice place and had gone back to looking green.

She tried again. 

“I’m Matilda. Matilda Tewt. Er. Thanks. You know.” 

She gave a wave of the hand that attempted to encompass the saving from certain death, ensuing fight and consequent greenness inflicted on her companion. The girl looked over at her, meeting her eyes for the first time.

~X~

 _Well done. You have a name. Wonderful. But then as the kid produced a wobbly smile Magda, surprised by her reaction, felt long unused muscles attempt to respond._

_“Magda Halter”_

_Another twinge from her bruised ribs brought her back to reality and she gave up thinking to concentrate instead on struggling back to the house. She might have made herself a whole lot of trouble with The Gang, but she wasn’t going to get ‘The Hole’ for this kid smile or no smile._

~X~

They reached the side door and slipped in without trouble. Halting in the unfamiliar corridor Matilda realised she didn’t know what they were meant to do next and turning to her guide for help discovered her missing. The girl was drooping against the wall, halfway up a staircase to the right. Remembering some of what ‘The Woman’ had told her that afternoon about washrooms being on the second floor (lower floor for staff only – dire consequences hinted at should they be used by anyone else) Matilda hurried to catch up. It was not her intention to leave her champion to suffer alone. Besides, she wasn’t overly keen on being alone in this place either. With darkness falling the impending night was starting to prey on her mind. Where did they sleep? Was that what the mountain had meant by “Wait and See”?

She put her arm around the girl, her intention to offer support up the stairs. But her support wasn’t welcomed. The girl turned, anger kindling in her eyes, but at that moment they were interrupted by footsteps coming along the corridor below them. Swallowing whatever she was going to say the girl grabbed Matilda’s arm and hustled her up to the mid stairs landing where they wouldn’t be seen in the darkness. Matilda’s mouth was already open, framing an enquiry, but the scowl bent on her frightened it away. 

As the figure came into view below Matilda could see it was one of the staff, Sister Lenience she presumed. Taking a large hand bell from the cupboard by the door the Sister rang it unenthusiastically a few times on the doorstep before replacing it and returning back up the corridor. Silence reigned once more. Matilda was just about to turn to her companion and remark that curfew didn’t seem so bad after all, when it happened.

It started so simply. A small head warily poked itself around the still open door, scanning the corridor. Then, finding the coast clear, two little girls snuck over the threshold, relief at gaining the corridor safely pouring off them in buckets.

“Good Evening Girls.”

The calm voice came out of the shadows. Matilda drew a breath of shock (she like the latecomers had assumed the corridor empty) but quietened as a hand tightened on her shoulder. Before her the two girls froze like rabbits in the light of a torch.

“Curfew Has Passed.”

The Sister moved languidly out of concealment looming large as she approached the two wrong-doers now backing away in counterpoint to her advance, step by step. The macabre dance was terminated by the girls’ heels eventually meeting the skirting board of the corridor wall, their retreat abruptly halted.

“You Will Come With Me.” 

And they did. They didn’t even protest or offer explanation. That was the strange thing, Matilda thought. No fight. They just cowered and waited as hands shot out and grabbed upper arms dragging them away. It must have hurt, but they said nothing.

The footfalls receded up the corridor and out of sight until silenced by the slamming of a door. The two girls who remained sat on the landing in silence and Matilda would probably have stayed there forever without the nudge to her shoulder that drew her out of her disbelief and led her away up the stairs. She followed the girl into the washroom at the top of the stairs and watched dazedly as she went about cleaning her face and removing the worst of the dust stains from her clothes. Something was niggling and as the girl put the cloth aside she drew up the courage to ask.

“Where did she take them?”

“Correction.” 

The girl’s gaze didn’t deviate from her examination of the mirror. A swelling was starting to form over one eye.

“Oh.”

“Won’t be too bad, couple of hits probably, it’s survivable.”

Rinsing the cloth she dug up a rough grin, bleeding some of the tension out of the room. But something still niggled at Matilda. It was her first day and she hadn’t yet learnt that some questions were best not asked in the Grey House.

“What about the governors, the board, surely there are laws about how schools should be run?”

“Laws? Oh yeah, there are laws.”

The girl put a hand to her head, closing her eyes for a moment before straightening up again and turning to face her, her expression unreadable.

“Listen kid. There’s only one law you need to worry about: They’re big and you’re little. Best thing you can do is keep your head down and stay out of sight until they forget about you. Put any ideas of running off out of your head and lie low for a couple of weeks. They’ll be watching you like a hawk.”

“And after that?” It was the longest speech she’d heard the girl utter and it wasn’t a nice one.

Her companion gave a hollow bark of laughter. “Have you got anywhere to run to?” She turned away and, folding the cloth carefully, returned it to the rail.

Matilda felt the hollow gap open up in her stomach again. The reality of where she was and what the future might hold swamped her once more. In a daze she trailed after the girl back down the stairs to where it seemed they had to line up for chapel. Slipping her hand into the small one in an attempt not to get lost again she said shyly “I’m glad I’ve got you for a friend.”

The girl stopped short, pulling her hand free as she turned on Matilda in sudden anger.

“I’m not your _friend_. I don’t _do_ friends. I’m in enough trouble for you already!”

She stormed away and Matilda quickly lost sight of her in the press of bodies.

~X~

 _The headache was a constant thrumming, driving her to distraction. It didn’t help that the look on the kids face as she’d stormed away kept playing over and over in her mind. Struggling in confusion and shame on top of a grinding headache Magda slipped into her place in chapel, dropping to her knees with the rest of the girls for the biding prayer before rising to stand at perfect attention._

_No use hoping for a short service. She longed for a dark quiet hole to crawl into for an hour or so. Ironic really, considering when They saw she’d been fighting again that was likely exactly where she’d end up. Two heavy hands dropped onto her shoulders from behind, almost startling her into betraying herself. A familiar voice whispered quietly into her ear._

_“You want to change things round here Halter? Hmm? Is our Tonker itching for a slice of the pie? Cos you’d better be able to back that up with something kid. You want that brat, you’d best have something to pay for her with…”_

_Magda struggled to think, fighting against the headache. The kid’s first night was coming. Cold dark dormitories where no one patrolled to see order and human decency were maintained. A jumbled up confusion of images flashed across her mind, snatches of the fight, foreboding of the trouble that was coming, a girl staring up at her with fear in those open eyes, the gaping maw of the Hole waiting for her to slip..._

_It was too much, the room whirled around her, the pain in her head overwhelming. The ground heaved under her feet, a starburst exploding across her mind. Sinking under a rolling wave of impenetrable black she held on for a last second, reaching out to a faintly heard cry._

~X~

Matilda hadn’t meant to cry out. She snatched back her hand, which had reached out toward the falling girl of its own accord. Both hands over her mouth to stifle any attention drawing noise she stood petrified as they dragged the girl away. They didn’t even pick her up, two large girls merely reached down under her shoulders and dragged her away, hands dangling. Watching the trailing feet disappear around the corner at the end of the pew, Matilda strained her ears and thought she could still hear the knuckles scraping over the rough floor.

There were whispers all around and then silence. Facing forward, hands clasped together in desperate prayer she felt the gaze of hungry hyenas on her back.

~X~

### Momentum

When Magda got out a week later the kid was sat on the stairs waiting for her.

Dragged out into the comparatively blinding light of the corridor she caught a glimpse of a small figure huddled on the dim landing. Brain racing, hunting for a reason why the kid should show up, she kept her gaze submissively downward determined not to send any unwanted attention the kid’s way. It wasn’t until the door had closed behind the Sister that her ramrod straight stance relaxed and she allowed herself to cross to the foot of the stairs.

Looking up, her jaw clenched as she saw the kid had been generously ‘welcomed’ while she had been away. It wasn’t just the bruises, their faded muddy yellow almost indistinguishable in the half light, but the way kid held herself differently and the something missing from her eyes. As yet they hadn’t completely got her, the blankness was only a faint hint at the edge of her irises, not yet the full opacity that marked you as a Grey House Girl.

Later, when she was an adult and out in the real world she learnt that amongst ‘normal people’ that kind of look in a kids eyes could make grown men swear and punch a wall to relieve their feelings and led hard-boiled women to find bits of dust in their eye. Rarely was anyone she came across able to meet eyes like that with calm acceptance. It was as though folks feared that if they looked deep enough they would be granting the blankness freedom to reach into their own souls. Only those like her, who knew that evil well and had nothing left to fear, could face that gaze unblinking. 

But that was a long time in the future, and today, standing looking up into those changed eyes all Magda was aware of was that of all the people in the world she didn’t want this to have happened to, this innocent little girl was the one she would have railed against the universe to have protected. And despite all that she knew the universe wasn’t willing to listen to the pleas of little girls. That was a lesson she’d learnt a long time ago.

“You waited for me.” Her voice held a tone of enquiry, as though she was unsure as to why that was the case.

“You’re the only person I know.”

Magda climbed the stairs and lowered herself with difficulty onto the step beside her. They sat in silence for a moment and then Matilda, looking straight ahead opened the conversation again. Something had been preying on her mind.

“You were a long time…”

“Sometimes they like to take a long time.”

Magda was too tired to hide the truth any more and realised too late that she’d allowed her quiet statement to reveal more than any detailed description could have done. Staring at her feet she swore silently that she would not look over to read pity in the new kid’s eyes. She waited for some kind of comment, some indication of rejection or denial of her words, but the kid was silent beside her.

Time passed and they sat on undisturbed. Around them the life of the school went on, distant voices carrying on inaudible conversations, slammed doors and dropped kitchenware. Remembering suddenly, Matilda reached into a hidden pocket and extracted an apple and a couple of pieces of bread. She handed them over, merely remarking quietly: “I didn’t know if they’d feed you”

Watching the girl fall on the bread hungrily Matilda wanted to ask if this time the girl would stay at her side, not just as her protector but as friend. There was something about this girl, something separate from the fact that she had gone out of her way, seemingly against her will, to save Matilda on her very first day. Compared to the other girls in here she was… Matilda hunted for the right word and had to settle on ‘different’.

But the words stuck in her throat, halted by the vivid memory of angry words and a stiff back stalking away from her. Magda had made it perfectly clear where she stood in regards to friendship. And yet here the girl was, sitting side by side with her most companionably. She shuffled closer on the step, hoping against hope and rejoiced to see that Magda didn’t pull away from the contact, merely leaning over to grab for the apple. The girl took a small bite, unconsciously favouring one side of her mouth and then offered it over. Reaching out for what she realised was a peace offering Matilda felt the knot in her stomach begin to melt away.

They sat there in the dim light sharing the apple, passing it back and forth, the thin shoulder pressed against Matilda’s worth than a paragraph of reassurances. Later, much later, Matilda would fill her in on all the news. How Klara and Tez had been ‘Sent Out’ and Klara hadn’t come back. How, following this unfortunate news, The Gang had been bullied into reforming themselves under Irina and her crew. How this meant that any ‘Tonker Troublemaking’ was now old news as attention turned to when Tez would be making an attempt at recovering her leadership and who would pick what side in the ensuing war.

For the moment, however, it was enough to sit undisturbed in the silence. Just two little girls huddled together on a dark staircase. Two bit part players struggling against the stream of a much larger play but from this moment on, together against the world.

~X~


	4. Lessons: Biology

Plant, and by extension ecosystem, responses to stress with regard to maintaining stability fall into two main categories: Resistance and Resilience, from which a third outcome is generally recorded: Adaptation.

**Resistance or tolerance:** A component of stability, being the ability to remain stable in the face of disturbance, able to tolerate environmental conditions or physiological stress. May be inborn or acquired. The ability of an organism to exclude or overcome, completely or in some degree, the effect of damaging factor. For plants and animals, the ability to withstand poor environmental conditions or attacks.

**Resilience:** A component of stability, being the ability to recover after disturbance. The ability of a natural system to recover from the stresses being placed upon it. A resilient ecosystem can withstand shocks and rebuild itself when necessary.

**Adaptation:** a hereditary characteristic allowing an organism to develop in other than its usual niche

~X~

### Resistance

The Gang had mostly let them alone after their re-organisation, pushing them into walls when passing but that was about it. It had become accepted that they were a pair and Tilda was included in the ring of untouchability surrounding ‘that blasted Tonker kid’. Weeks passed and as Matilda learnt the routines and small casual cruelties of everyday life in the Grey House she became more and more grateful for what the girl had done that first day. And though Magda never called her by name, in fact hardly ever spoke to her, she seemed not to mind her tagging along. 

Not long after she arrived the Grey House received a group of new inmates. Matilda, now in her mind at least one of the old lags watched them curiously as The Woman pushed them before her into the refectory. Unconsciously her hand went to her head where the soft fuzz of hair brought reminders of the little nicks and cuts she could see on the scalps of those now cringing before the collected gaze of the whole school. That night she felt the thud of a something heavy at the end of her cot and opened startled eyes to see Magda casually folding her legs beneath her, seemingly settling in for the night.

“Go back to sleep.” 

The whisper was loud enough to reach the cots on either side, but neither occupant responded, instead huddling deeper into the covers in a pretence that there wasn’t a girl sat cross-legged on the end of Matilda Tewt’s bed in flagrant disregard of the rules.

“What’s going on?” Tilda half sat up, but was halted by a shake of the head and a stern glance from the interloper.

Merely repeating her order to go back to sleep, Magda took a handful of pebbles from somewhere within her nightgown and began to play _jacks_ on the space of mattress in front of her. Tilda, curled up at the other end of the thin cot, lay obediently silent but did not close her eyes and search for sleep as she had been ordered. People did not invade people’s cots to play jacks after lights out without some sort of ulterior motive. Long minutes passed. Silence reigned through the dormitories and Tilda was just starting to wonder if perhaps Magda had got her information wrong when she heard it. The drama started as whispers, a creak of a door, rustling and the sound of bare feet on floorboards as a group gathered in the next part of the dormitory. No one sat up; there would have been no point as the half wall between the two rooms hid any action from view. But it didn’t prevent sound travelling freely and every lump in every bed tensed as the first blows were struck and the first whimpers were heard. Tilda’s eyes shot to the girl at the foot of her bed. Meeting her gaze fully Magda said not a word but the calm lack of surprise on her face answered all of Matilda’s unspoken questions. 

The show didn’t last long, the perpetrators fully aware of the time they had to act freely between the passing patrols of Sisters on the watch for ‘degenerate behaviour’. Hyped up on the sport however, they didn’t leave the way they had come, choosing instead to rampage up and down the ordered beds occasionally pouncing on this huddle under the blankets, or that tightly curled figure. Invading Tilda’s dorm they caught sight of the upright figure calmly sitting at the end of the cot, engrossed in her game. There was a quick, disconcerted whispering conversation and then the group turned and left, hunting easier pickings elsewhere. Tilda heard the noise fade into the distance and sat up to place a hand on the callused one reaching for the collection of pebbles. Her whispered words of thanks were pushed aside and Magda withdrew her hand abruptly from the contact. The girl merely reiterated her earlier words (the only phrase she had spoken all night) and with a wave of her hand indicated she should lie down and make good use of the rest of the night. Tilda obeyed reluctantly, but the lateness of the hour overcame her once she was huddled in the warmth of the rough blankets and she fell asleep even as she considered how to force Magda to return to her own cot now the excitement was over.

Surfacing drowsily in the early hours of the morning in a confused attempt to work out why her feet kept hitting an obstruction she dimly saw a figure curled up asleep in an awkward hunched position against the foot-rail of her cot. Matilda’s confused intention was to do something about this state of affairs but she was betrayed by her exhaustion, sleep rising up to claim her again. In the morning Magda woke her as usual, saying nothing about the goings-on of the night before and Matilda, ever a follower of etiquette, took her lead in the matter. To be sure, the Gang looked at them askance over breakfast, certain members sending deep scowls in their direction but as Magda was ignoring them completely Matilda found she could as well.

~X~

After the events of that night she had stopped referring to her as “the girl”. In truth, she had found that within the confines of her mind she didn’t need a name for the memories and emotions connected to that one specific image. Out loud she found she wasn’t calling her anything, stuttering when she tried to say “Magda” and completely unable to bring herself to say “Tonker” like the others did. It didn’t seem to matter, the girl was generally close enough for her to tug at a sleeve should she wish to ask anything and they weren’t really known for their long conversations anyway.

She realised soon enough that the girl was keeping an eye on her. There were times when she’d come running and shove her into a dark corner and with a hissed _“and keep quiet”_ before scurrying on about her way. Matilda never knew who amongst the people passing Magda was hiding her from, but she did her best to help the girl in her task, keeping her head down and shutting up. With Magda’s help, Matilda even learnt to be quiet. It was difficult for her to swallow back the protests she was prone to expressing, but a nudge or occasional kick on the shins kept her out of trouble. In reward for her control, Magda always let her rattle on when there was no one around to hear, though the girl never responded to her torrent of words. Matilda sometimes wondered if she was even listening.

Girls came and went. Those of the Senior School - the Big Girls - were Sent Out, occasionally fulfilling the positions they were hired for so well that they were Kept On (with ensuing celebrations amongst the general population). Some who were Sent Out never came back for other reasons that were never discussed, never alluded to. Matilda wanted to ask, curiosity burning within her, but the look Magda got whenever the news of another filtered through to them warned her against broaching the subject. Most of them were back within the week, the tasks they were needed for completed satisfactorily for the present. Sometimes, in the quiet moments she managed to steal away, Matilda wondered what tasks she would be fit for when she was one of the Big Girls. She didn’t think the population would need a girl who could recite the works of Hyel, or describe the more detailed campaigns of Tacticus himself. As yet she hadn’t let anyone but Magda know that she knew her numbers and could do all kinds geometry given a sharp enough stick and some dust to draw in.

~X~

All in all they were rubbing along fine through the day to day grinding boredom and petty abuses of life in the Grey House. And then one day Magda slipped late into the refectory and found the seat next to her empty. _The kid wasn’t there._ Casting a quick eye around the tables she couldn’t see the kid anywhere. Fear flashed across her mind but she pushed it away. There was no need to start thinking stupidly yet. There were any number of reasons why the kid might have skipped a meal. The food for one, she thought, spooning the mush into her mouth as she kept her head down, her eyes flickering around the room. She caught a smidgeon of humorous conversation from the table currently occupied by The Gang. Magda made no comment but just finished as quickly as she could so she could get out and search before jumping to conclusions.

Half an hour later she knew something was up. She’d looked everywhere, including the machinery shed the kid didn’t know she knew about, where Tilda went to hide out in when she wanted to be alone. The kid wasn’t anywhere. Now the churning of fear in her stomach couldn’t be denied. There were so many things that could happen to a kid in this place and as she hurried back toward the mill they flickered across her mind in an endless list.

She needed to find out what had happened and she did. There was always someone who knew what was going on and people didn’t tend to refuse Tonker what she asked for when she decided she really wanted to know. Catching the latest tale bearing rat as she passed her in the corridor, she slammed the brat into a dark corner and quickly got the information she needed. It was the Gang of course. They’d set the kid up, leading her into a situation where she’d be caught up by the Sisters and there’d not been anyone there to prevent it. _Magda_ hadn’t been there to prevent it. She felt the black rage ignite deep inside her soul.

_This. Should. Not. Be._

The fury was growing, rising up, threatening to boil over. She would go and fight, kick them, hit them, do anything to break down the cellar door and get the kid out of that place. She would _not_ allow them to do this. She would…

_No._

She forced the anger down, taking one calming breath after another. It had taken her a while and a number of hard lessons but she had come to learn that fury did not impart strength over them. Long hours in The Hole had finally taught her to control her temper. She looked down at the small girl still under her hands, taking in the tremors of fear shaking through her, the trepidation in her eyes. This little blasted spy was here, fragile in her grasp, she could break her if she wanted, take out some of the sick clenched anger on her scrawny form, put aside her despair for precious moments of white hot rage. But she wouldn’t.

Instead Magda said nothing, did nothing, just dropped the brat and quietly walked away. She kept walking, out of the house and over the cobbled courtyard to the stables. As she mucked out the stalls, changed the water buckets and replenished the hay racks she felt the rage she had banked down trying to escape. The space it had created when it first exploded in her chest was filled with a sickening weight, chill and heavy in her stomach. Her earlier fear had drained away the minute she had heard what had happened and the disappointment that had taken its place was an old familiar sensation, oozing through the tendrils of her thoughts in mind numbing chilly fog. This hadn’t been meant to happen. But it had. That was the Grey House for you. It had a way of finding out your hopes and trampling them in any number of delightful ways. 

_Rule One of the Grey House: Some things just were. There was nothing you could do about it. That was just the way things turned out._

When her jobs were all done she went and sat on the stairs by the door and waited. She didn’t sit there fretting, she didn’t rage against those that would take a kid and lock her up like this, she didn’t let the acid burn in her belly against The Gang who had tricked Matilda into getting into this kind of trouble. She just sat quietly and waited for the kid to come out.

Matilda didn’t come out that day.

~X~

### Resilience

Three days after they took Matilda away Magda took her usual perch on the stairs, pulling the rough cotton of her dress down over her knees. She settled in for the afternoon, her jobs were done for the moment and she had no expectation that anyone would be out looking for her today. She was idly picking at the scab on her elbow when the clack of the door latch broke into her reverie and glancing over she saw behind the Sister the small bedraggled form she been waiting for. The kid’s chin stuck out so stubbornly even now.

Magda said not a word but as soon as the Sister had left she stood and led the way upstairs, Matilda obediently following behind without question. In silence she led the way along echoing corridors, occasionally putting a hand out to stop the kid as she peered round corners and checked the coast was clear. The kid said nothing merely halting at her touch and moving on at her urging, stumbling after her like a sleepwalker awake.

They climbed all the way up through the Grey House to the attics and someone must have been smiling on them because they didn’t see a single soul on any of the many flights of stairs. At the very top instead of turning left into their dormitory as Matilda expected, Magda turned right, into the little kid’s dormitory, the attic next to their own. It was empty and quiet at this hour, the smallest inhabitants of the Grey House all at their lessons, learning by rote the detailed Laws of Nuggan. Walking quickly to the very end of the room Magda slid between the last bed and the wall and ran her hands lightly over the panelling. Finding what she was looking for she tapped the wall and a small section popped out just enough for leverage. Slipping her fingernails around the edge she clawed it open to reveal an opening behind, a forgotten space between the eaves. As she crawled into the gloom Magda felt the kid hesitate behind her and turned back.

“Don’t worry about the dust,” she whispered and held out a hand.

Wiggling through the tight spaces under the eaves they heard the tweeting of birds drifting through the dust, up here they could have no idea in whose roof they nested. Hand in hand, sometimes crawling, sometimes crouching, the two girls made their way through the forgotten detritus of decades, Magda leading the way. As they skirted the last piece of broken furniture she heard the intake of breath behind her and the sanctuary opened out before them. Beside the gable end wall someone had cleared a small space down to the floorboards. Shielded by the clutter it was a private den hidden away from any inquisitive or hurting eyes.

Squatting on her heels before a wooden hatch in the wall, Magda flicked the catch holding the doors closed and pulled wide the shutters. Daylight rushed in carrying with it faint sounds drifting up from the world below. Below them the bustling girls in the laundry courtyard were a reminder of the world they were tied to. But ignoring that and looking straight out it was possible to forget the walls for a precious moment as all the valley opened out before them, tree dotted fields and woods above, spreading away to the high tops that reached up to a cloud painted sky.

Magda drank in the view in silence on a long breath. Up here it was possible to put aside the reality and believe, just for a few minutes, that this was all that existed in the world. That the fields and high woods were within her grasp, that she could walk through whenever she wanted. That _this_ was the true reality. All too soon the moment passed and she sat back on the dusty floorboards leaning sideways against the large trunk in her usual spot, the one that gave her the view she liked best, out over a bend in the river to where the wood reached down in green fingers to the water meadows. Remembering her companion she looked around and found Matilda, silent beside her, the tight hold the kid was holding over her emotions visible in every tense muscle.

“You c’n cry iff’n yer want,” she said awkwardly. “Can’t no one hear you up here but me, an’ maybe they birds.”

The kid was sat half turned away from her, scrunched up and hugging her knees, looking straight ahead and rocking gently. As Magda watched, concerned, water welled up in the kid’s eyes and tears began to dribble slowly down her cheeks. She wondered if she should say something more, the normally chatty kid still hadn’t spoken. Before her eyes the tears increased from the dribble to a steady flow as the kid’s shoulders heaved on a sob. Magda was uncomfortable, unsure of what to do next. She usually walked away from the crying ones, not wanting to get involved. It had never been her problem before. She had made it not her problem, the sight and sound of tears doing things to her insides she wasn’t comfortable with. But this time it was different. This time it was the kid. She forced herself to put a cautious arm around the shaking shoulders despite her instincts screaming at her to retreat, to flee from any contact. A small quiet voice rising from the closed depths spoke calmly but with emphasis that this was needed and should be done.

As soon as she touched the thin back the kid turned into her, grabbed the front of her dress tightly with both hands and burst into a cascade of sobs. From this position Magda found was simpler to put both arms around the girl and so she did, uneasily stroking the back under her hand.

“Shh, Tilly. It’s alright, you’re out now.”

She didn’t notice she had used the girl’s name for the first time. Things like that didn’t matter. She sat on, cradling the girl, waiting for the sobs to ease. The kid’s grip loosened as she relaxed into her hold, cocooned in the murmuring words poured out over the dark head. Up till now Magda had always accepted that she would never be good with words, but somehow today those she had were enough. She’d never brought anyone up here before. As far as she knew no one but her had discovered the old spaces in the eaves. It had been her sanctuary, her freedom. Sitting there with the kid snuffling in her arms she felt something change, deep down in the darkness, as some part of her wound up tight and locked away for years woke up and dared to stick out a tentative tendril.

~X~

### Adaptation

Magda shook the shoulder under her hand carefully.

“Tilda? Wake up kid. Time to be up and doing.”

The kid murmured and nestled further into her shoulder. She had dropped into a quiet doze after crying herself out and Magda had sat immobile watching the birds flirt around outside and the shadows of distant trees marching across the fields. From the lengthening shapes she reckoned it was coming to the end of the time they could safely steal away.

“C’mon kid, we can’t stay here for ever.”

They would have to get out before anyone was likely to be in the dormitories on the other side of the door. She nudged the kid again and Matilda sat up rubbing tired eyes. She looked around, confused for a moment to see the gloom of the attic stretching away into the darkness and then her eyes cleared as memory returned.

“Thank you.”

“T’wern’t nuttin.”

“Thank you anyway.” 

The hand rested on her arm for a moment and was then withdrawn, Tilda fully understanding her need for space.

They retraced their steps through the dust, crawling out into the dormitory to brush the worst of it from their clothes. Tilda looked around her at the quiet order as Magda replaced the wall, carefully examining it to ensure they had left no trace of their presence. It seemed so strange that mere feet from this example of their incarceration was a space of such freedom. When she eventually turned to thank the girl again for sharing something that was obviously extremely precious to her she found her leaning against the door-jam looking back impatiently.

“You’re wool gatherin’ again. C’mon, I got chores to be doin’.”

She led off and Tilda followed, grateful for the still empty corridors as the evidence of her tears still stood large in her reddened eyes. When they reached the stables Magda jerked a thumb at the water trough, indicating she should make use of it to cool her hot tired eyes. Splashing the water over her face, Matilda allowed the soothing sensation to centre her, rubbing wet hands over her short hair to dry them and get the last of the cellar dust from off her skin. Whilst she washed, Magda had made quick work of her chores, skimping over the less important ones, and reappeared at her shoulder to guide her into tea. 

They were only just not late, slipping in at the last minute to scrabble over the last of the bread and dripping. In her hunger Matilda didn’t even pay attention to where the Gang were sitting, looking over in their direction from time to time. But Magda caught the curious stares and the daggers she sent back in her gaze said more for the future of relations between the two of them than any words could. The meal over, the two girls went to slip away with the rest of the crowd, Matilda still wary of company, her jagged edges not yet ready to face the world. But there was another dragon to be faced yet this evening.

“Matilda Tewt?”

“Yes Sister?” 

Matilda felt a hand squeeze her arm and at the strengthening touch the panic that had rushed through her faded away again. It was only Sister Perseverance, she wasn’t in trouble this time.

“Hannah is to be Sent Out and it has been ordained that you are to take over her duties as parlour-maid. Do you understand this task?”

“Yes Sister.” 

Magda was pleased to see the kid kept her eyes lowered, her gaze on the Sister’s shoes.

“You are to keep the rooms clean and the fires lit, I expect the grates cleared and the fires re-laid before the Sisters come down into the room in the morning. You will have to rise and see to it before prayers.”

“Yes Sister.” 

Matilda didn’t mention how that wouldn’t be that onerous a task considering she rose early with Magda anyway to help in the stables (a task which purely incidentally kept them both out of the way of anyone interested in starting trouble in the morning confusion).

“Very well. That will be all. Carry on.”

“Yes Sister. Thank you Sister. God Bless You Sister.” 

They both ducked their heads in respect and were gone.

~X~

Magda got her up extra early, dragging her from room to room, making sure she knew where the kindling was, where the coal was kept, where Hannah had stored her cleaning clothes and brushes. That first week Matilda stumbled from room to room in a daze, Magda laying the fires for her and sweeping out the hearths. But she was a quick learner and by the second week she managed to do the whole floor, Magda walking beside her to check for any slips. It wasn’t that hard to get the fires lit, a simple application of physics and the flames were soon licking over the scraps of wood. She found she could even do it faster than Magda and crowed for a while, until Magda reminded her that she still took too long blacking the grates and wasted too much of the blacking by spreading it all over her pinafores.

It wasn’t hard work and once she’d got into the routine of it Magda left her to get on with it, returning to the stables to catch up on her own chores she’d let slide in that early training period. She always made sure that she got Matilda up extra early though and the younger girl grumbled at times, staggering from room to room with the heavy scuttle, her eyes struggling to stay open. But one day Matilda realised why she had made the effort. It was only her second week doing the rounds alone and she was later than usual (she’d only sat down for a moment – but woken up long minutes later) when she was interrupted by one of the Brothers as she was laying the last fire. He had startled her and as she spun round she saw something kindle in his eyes. Fear crawled down the back of her neck in chill fingers and she castigated herself over and over for not paying more attention to the things Magda had left unsaid. As the weeks had passed she had come to understand that just because the girl didn’t speak words aloud didn’t mean she wasn’t saying things all the time with her eyes and her body posture and the way she hid Matilda from certain people and prevented her from walking certain corridors. 

As Matilda stood there, not listening to the soft words dropping from his fleshy lips, desperately searching for a way out of the room she realised she should have listened more carefully. She really should.

Her mind spun in a frantic attempt to come up with a plan, any plan, and then she caught a shadow moving into sight in the doorway and inhaled on a gasp of relief as Magda halted on the threshold, her quick eyes scanning the scene. Comprehension dawning the other girl vanished but before Matilda could lose heart a kerfuffle sprung up somewhere nearby, shouts echoing down the corridor.

“What do you think your doing?! You clumsy oaf, try paying some attention to where you’re going!”

The Brother turned away, his attention distracted by the noise and Magda re-appeared at the opposite doorway, whispered _“Run!”_ and grabbed her by the hand. As she was dragged urgently through the connecting door into the next room and then through that to the corridor beyond, Matilda blessed the spirits that were watching out for her, the girl who’s hand was held so strongly in hers and fate in general for getting her out of that room. She also promised faithfully to never do such a thing again, both to the fates and to Magda who had pushed her up against the nearest available solid wall and given her the longest telling off in a ferocious whisper that she’d ever received.

~X~

Matilda was better prepared after that. She got up without complaining when Magda shook her in the morning and she always ensured that at least two exiting doors were opened in any room she worked in. Being as the authorities at the Grey House liked their comfort as well as anyone else and preferred to lie abed until morning prayers rather than rise and wander the chill corridors it was rare indeed that she saw anyone as she went about her allotted tasks. Her chores done in the morning meant she had time to spare in the evenings to help Magda with hers. This was time she cherished, working side by side without talking, the beasts warm beside them. Despite the location of their captivity, the animals housed within the walls of the Grey House were not that different from those outside and interaction with such simple beings who responded in kind to caresses from tiny hands did much to reduce the heartache that never completely left her.

Being the smaller it was often her lot to scramble up into the hayloft, pushing the sweet smelling grasses down through the trapdoors into the mangers below. It was a task she was capable of carrying out with skill and grace.

However, some days that was not quite how it worked out in practice.

She didn’t know if it was the scents rising from the hay that made her so giddy, or some other as yet undiscovered reason of great scientific import but there was one day, despite all the effort of the Grey House to the contrary, she had ended up laughing so much she’d had to lie down, her head dangling through the trapdoor in order to fully appreciate the catastrophe below.

Magda had leant into the manger to call up to her that she was ready to receive the hay and not realising the girl below was still perched precariously over the rail, Matilda had left fly with a considerable armful. The descending weight had knocked the lower girl into the manger, at the same time burying her in the delicious fodder. Struggling to get her head above water as it were, Magda had looked up to see the dark head, gasping for breath as Matilda succumbed to hysterical giggles, framed for eternity by the trap door.

Below her, surrounded by hay, she saw Magda reach up and fluff her fingers through her hair, causing a vast quantity of grass seeds to fall out onto her shoulders. Brushing them off in an attempt to maintain decorum (despite sitting waist deep in a manger of hay) she was caught unexpectedly in a violent sneeze, which in turn brought forth another paroxysm of giggles from above.

It wasn’t a special saint’s day, marked off in calendars, celebrated by processions or needing specific liturgy. It was a simple Thursday unremarkable apart from one thing.

Magda Halter smiled.


	5. Lessons: History

_**Authors Note:** The first half of this chapter is amongst one of the scenes I first wrote for this. Originally it functioned as a stand alone snippet growing up around the simple acceptance (despite non-comprehension) of the burden of penance for an unremembered sin that I always associated with Tonker. I feel I must inform any readers that this is as far as I got when planning out the overall arc of this thing, whatever it might be, this glimpse into the early years at the Grey House. This was going to be my ending (along with chapter 6). _

_However since then I’ve grown used to hanging out with these two and though I originally didn’t think I’d be able to make myself write the horrors of later on, I have been sketching out some ideas. It is going to take somewhat of a downward path – though it’s not a complete angst fest that I can promise you. To any readers I lose along the way, I can only thank you for you patience in getting this far and recommend “Another Beginning” and “Bookends” as your route out of imminent depression._

_I’m just going to take a moment to say something I should have slipped in at the beginning, feel free to jump on to the actual tale telling somewhere below. As I never thought that anyone would read this I never expressed my true thanks to Mr (Sir)Terry Pratchett. In truth, when I began this I was only every writing it for myself (as my beta says when I send another chapter for reviewing “Oh yay – another chunk of ‘My Issues… Let Me Show You Them’, “) expecting that people would enjoy the other shorter funny stuff about Mal and Polly, but not be bothered about some angsty prepisode. However, as it seems at least one person is reading this I wanted to just say my little piece before I moved on._

_Disclaimers about non-ownership aside, I need to thank Sir Pterry for what he did with these characters specifically. By writing these two into MR he did something for me that I will never forget. It wasn’t only that he put something out there, over the past years the acceptance that such things happen has been growing amongst the general population and I no longer walk down the street feeling the need to scream it from the rooftops. No, it was something else._

_Over the years I have fumed quietly that the world of Tonker and Lofty and the Grey House has been divided off in the world of books, walked past shelves and shelves of “that kid” and “ooops, somebody hit us”. Books with all white covers with a hint of pastel (pale blue for boys, a smidgeon of pink for girls) and some big eyed cute kid sketched on the cover. Books that said this thing can only be told in a book of its own, that it can never merely be there in the background or part of the reality of another story. That these things, when they happen make the receiver such an outcast from humanity that it is only their story that can be told and only the small part of their life story that refers to what happened to them. And moreover whoever they are, they’re not like you or me - normal looking, even ugly in some lights. No - they are always cute/beautiful in order that you the general public can understand the iniquity of such happenings. The world seemed sure that despite all I knew, (that such things were everywhere and that the people involved carried on their lives and were interwoven with so many other stories often completely unrelated to their pasts) once something like that happened to you, that was all you became. A victim with only one story to tell. One story that was so terrible it could only be written in a book so designed that all and sundry could see at a glance what it contained and avoid picking it up and reading it. A story that didn’t deserve to be amongst other books, more real books, books that normal people read. A story that had to be separated in case it upset anyone, A story that would have to be specially selected off the shelf in order to be read/discovered. And that made me bloody furious._

_Mr Pratchett changed all that. He took his world, a world that I accepted as a mirror of ours and that I knew millions of other people accepted as well, and placed these two characters in it, as bit part actors, a side story only. It was not about them and yet he admitted their existence to his tale. They weren’t just where they had come from. MR was about more than the Grey House. His was the first mainstream book I had ever read that did that and it did more to give me hope than any of those damn “oh, such terrible things happened to me, pity me and then forget me” tales with the pastel and the simple font and the big eyed urchin with the mussed hair. He made it real, where they just opened a box to show the freaks to the world and then made sure the box was closed tight again so that the general public could leave the “nasty ideas” in the circus tent and go back to their happy lives where such things didn’t happen and thus would go on happening undetected for ever. He made it real. He made it something we all will see at some point or other and he made it normal. Or as normal as it could be._

_For that Sir Terry, I thank you._

* **Primary Sources:** a first-hand source from the past, those sources closest to the origin of the information or idea under study.

**Secondary Sources:** Sources that involve generalization, analysis, synthesis, interpretation, or evaluation of the original information, may relate or discuss information originally presented elsewhere.

~X~

### Primary sources

_“What did you do?”_

It was towards the end of the first year of their friendship when Tilda asked the question. The query was common enough in the Grey House, a way of ranking new arrivals and reinforcing hierarchies and she’d brought the topic up without thinking as they sat on the stableyard wall enjoying a rare quiet moment. Magda had scowled and hunched a shoulder away from her companion. Over the years many of the girls had asked the question of her, but she had always refused to answer. Tilda had been different though. She hadn’t asked. Until now.

“What does it matter?” she had muttered and sliding down from their perch had stalked away, feeling Tilda’s puzzled eyes on her back.

Kicking a stone as she turned the corner into the kitchen courtyard Magda had cursed the brat fluently under her breath. _The afternoon was all spoilt now and all because some stupid kid couldn’t work out when to shut up._ She didn’t want to look too closely at the new emotion that rode along with her usual flash of irritation at the question. _The ache was most likely the unripe apples they’d snaffled from the tree that hung over from the wall, that was all. Tonker Halter couldn’t care less that some little squirt had woken up with an urge to poke around in her business. Said squirt could just go swivel._

But Tilda wouldn’t leave the subject alone. She would wait a week before broaching the subject again but she used that week to make some discrete enquiries in light of Magda’s reaction. It was an otherwise unremarkable evening, as they were eating at the long table in the noisy refectory when she brought it up again.

“The Gang say you killed someone”. She kept her voice low to avoid anyone overhearing. “Did you?”

“The Gang can go fuck themselves!” Magda hissed as she cast an angry look towards the gaggle of girls on the next table over. “What do they know? Even that pig Marguerite only got stuck in here a couple of years ago!”

“But did you?”

Tilda was insistent and Magda was torn between leaving the table, with all the trouble that would bring and just hauling off and hitting the girl to get her to shut up. She settled for a stony silence, hunching her shoulder away from the annoyance beside her. A gentle hand was placed on her arm and though she pulled away Tilda’s small fingers stayed put.

“I don’t think you killed anyone” a quiet voice said softly, “I don’t care what that Marguerite says” and with that the hand was withdrawn.

~X~

Another month passed before Magda actually told her the truth.

They were sitting under the bridge that spanned the mill stream, connecting the Grey House with the water meadows that divided the old mill from the river. It was one of their favourite spots to sneak away to, too damp and dark to be coveted by the Gang and so far ‘They’ hadn’t discovered it either. It had been a good day, they’d climbed up to see the swallows nesting in the barn and managed to avoid running into any of _‘Them’_ as they ran down to the river.

Savouring their snatch of freedom they’d clambered out to sprawl along the tree branches that swung down to brush the surface of the slow moving water. Hanging there over the gentle flow Magda had spotted the old trout under the bank and with a quietening hand between her companion’s shoulder blades had pointed him out as he hung there seemingly suspended in space, just the slow movements of his fins indicating he was in water rather than air. They’d watched him mouths agape for long minutes until a fly setting on the surface had drawn his attention and he’d vanished in a swirl of effort.

Their ability for sitting still expended they’d clambered back to solid ground and set off to investigate the river bank. Two curious little girls can find much to entertain them amongst the long reeds and quiet inlets of a lowland riverbank. They spent an industrious afternoon chasing dragonflies, gathering interesting snail shells and poking in every mud hollow they could find. A good hour was been spent repairing the remnants of a scraggly dam, built across a rivulet that dribbled into the main river by person or persons unknown. Tiring at last they’d returned to the river’s edge to wash their hands and make a valiant attempt to get the mud stains out of their clothes. Once an acceptable level of cleanliness had been achieved they’d lain out in the long grass allowing the late afternoon sun to dry their frocks, lazily watching the cows as they came down to drink on the other side of the river.

Now sitting here Magda felt the images from the day flicker across her mind again as they settled into the filing store of memory. The sun would be setting soon and the last rays were slipping under the arch and making the stream dance at their feet in millions of tiny sparkles. The scent of sun-kissed skin rose up from the arms she had folded around her knees and wrapped in a haze of contentment her thoughts drifted along without direction until they bumped up against the jagged rocks of a question unanswered.

_“They said I had a devil in me.”_

The quiet words slipped out and the relief of finally saying it was like a weight lifted from her shoulders.

“Who said?” Tilda took her hand, “Marguerite?”

“You asked me what I did to be here.” 

Magda paused, lost in the swirling darkness of those long ago days. 

“The others, they all say stuff, they make up stuff about me. I know. I hear them at it. Tez even said I was put here cos I killed a priest and his family.”

She was wandering round the subject she knew. There were such a lot of years in the way.

“It was so long ago.” She gently traced the veins on the back of the slender hand in hers with a roughened fingertip. “One minute I was at home, hunting for chicken eggs and swinging on the gate, the next thing I remember I’m stood in the middle of the floor of the small hall with all the juniors looking at me like I’m supper.”

Magda frowned, trying to remember the details but they were lost in the great eddying mist.

“I don’t know what I did.” She looked up shamefacedly into sympathetic eyes. “Honestly, I don’t remember, I’m sorry.”

An arm was wrapped around her shoulders and, confused though she was at this reaction to her shameful admission, Magda allowed the embrace. It had taken a while but she was getting used to Tilda and her daft need to hug people now, the brat seemed intelligent enough to know when she could offer comfort and when to leave Magda her space. They sat in silence for a moment watching the patterns on the river.

“What about the devil?”

Magda looked up enquiringly.

“You said something about a devil.”

The older girl straightened up, drawing her knees up to her chest, Tilda’s arm sliding off as she felt the withdrawal. For a moment Magda sat there, hugging her knees, not wanting to dive back into the murky pool of memories.

“When I first came… You know how it is, they all stand round.” Tilda nodded in remembrance. “They said,“ she sighed unable to finish the sentence, took a breath and tried again.

“ _Them_ , Him and Her downstairs. They said I had a devil in me.” Her eyes came back into focus as she put the memory away. “They told the Matron to keep an eye on me”

“Pah.” What could only be described as a disbelieving snort emanated from the ladylike figure beside her. “D’you want me to look for it?”

“Tilly!”

Tilda’s strategy had worked, pulling Magda out of her reverie. She met the shocked eyes with a raised eyebrow accompanied with somewhat of an amused smile. But Magda had come up from too deep to simply laugh it off and her eyes dropped again to the sanctuary of the un-accusing stream flowing ever onwards past their feet.

They both sat in silence, watching the water, Magda wishing she could send this lump clogging up her insides away on the tide and Tilda solidly working out what to say to explain this. Eventually the younger girl put a hand on her arm and though Magda flinched away she glanced up at the same time. Her gaze was held, pinioned by the seriousness in Tilda’s eyes.

“How old were you?” 

Tilda tightened her hold as those eyes dropped again, forcing Magda to look back up. She needed her to understand this.

“How _old_ were you?”

“I don’t know.” Magda looked back over the years. In the Grey House the passing of seasons seemed to run into each, the sameness flowing from one year to the next. “I remember four summers, before this one.”

“Magda, you were four years old.” 

Tilda turned so that she was facing the girl head on. Magda’s eyes were darting all over the place, unable to meet her gaze but she could tell the girl was hanging onto the silence, needing to hear the words. 

“You can’t have a devil in you when you’re four. It’s just not possible.”

The eyes that finally settled on hers at that statement held such a mixture of hope, confusion and fear that Tilda felt her heart break for the girl even as she nodded with total certainty. Under her hands she felt the tension dissolve away, escaping the girl’s body on the long sigh of relief Magda released as her shoulders dropped and she slumped back against the dank underside of the bridge. There might even been a glint of tears at the corner of those hidden eyes but Tilda knew better than to draw attention to that fact.

“You’re a right daftie sometimes, Magda Halter.”

It was lucky for Tilda that Magda was still processing the previous statement as the younger girl wrapped thin arms around her in an enthusiastic hug otherwise the stream might have been home to one dripping wet brat as well as slime, tadpoles and little see-through fishes. The Tewt kid’s obvious certainty that the whole idea of evil possession was a silly thing had done something weird to her insides.

“Mags?”

That day, in that place, the damp chill of the stone rebuffed by the warm arms that encircled her, Magda Halter allowed herself to believe. Something flickered deep down in the cold clenched cell Magda considered her heart. She might not be able to believe the statement every day. But for that moment, under that dank bridge, held in those strong arms, she did. And at the same time she knew for a certainty that Tilda would tell her again if she ever needed to ask. Unconsciously her arms moved to support the live weight attempting to climb into her lap.

The delightful tableau was interrupted by a blackbird with no sense of decorum fluttering down and setting about his weekly wash in the shallow water that lapped at the far edge. Resurfacing to an uncomfortable realisation of their positions Magda quickly calculated back over the passing of time and came to an urgent conclusion. Hug time was over. She cautiously patted Tilda between the shoulder blades, their signal for completion of the difficult procedure. But the blasted kid went and snuggled further in, for some absurd reason assuming that there was some incontrovertible reason for extending hug time on this occasion. Magda waited for the irritability that usually welled up in her in situations like this but there was nothing. Sighing she shrugged and let the brat get on with it. If Tilda needed to snuggle then so be it, she was sure she could survive this once.

~X~

### Secondary Sources

Tilda didn’t have to ask Magda much about her past. She was a good listener and there were a number of stories passed down and around about the longer term occupants of the Grey House. ‘Tonker’ (she still couldn’t see Magda as that) had a whole library of tales to her name. Folks were always willing to tell about the time she walked the length of the back corridor on her hands for a bet, the time Klara got hold of the communion wine and they all got drunk, or the time she climbed all the way up onto the roof and wriggled her way down the main chimney to drop soot into one of the Sister’s beds undetected.

Then there were the other stories, the ones that told her more about her friend than the teller knew they were imparting. She was presented with the opportunity to overhear one of these after the time with the trustees.

Magda had moved swiftly through the lower corridors, sweeping up Tilda on the way. The kid knew by now not to ask questions when she felt the soft touch to her shoulder. Trouble was brewing again. Back in the early days Magda had explained how it went to the kid, how on days like these you just gotta hide n keep low.

That day the pair had hurried through the corridors, running whenever possible, slipping past other groups of girls. Word obviously hadn’t yet spread through the house and most of the occupants were going about their normal business, huddled here and there in chattering clumps that had to be navigated. Grabbing her hand, Magda had dragged Tilda up a flight of stairs she’d never noticed before, hauling her up and then up again, the staircase getting narrower and narrower as they climbed. Eventually they’d scrambled out through a small door to find themselves in the clock tower. It was a tiny space, dark and smelling of pigeon dung, only tiny shafts of light coming in where the slats were miss-aligned. Away in the shadows a stepladder vanished up in the gloom and Magda had tugged on the hand she was still holding, indicating that they should keep climbing.

“What’s happening?” 

Tilda had placed a foot on the bottom rung testing it for strength.

“Visit from the trustees. They like to see how we’re getting along.” 

Magda had given her a boost and climbing into the darkness Tilda had found the trapdoor with her head. Scrabbling around she’d discovered the latch and flung back the door to haul herself up into an even tinier space behind the mechanism. Magda had pulled herself up behind and they’d both lowered themselves carefully onto the wooden planks laid here and there over the roof beams. Tilda had watched her companion scan the cramped space for any evidence that someone else had disturbed their hiding place and then relax back against the uprights.

“Won’t they miss us?” 

She was used to Magda hiding her now, discovering month by month the wide variety of little nooks and crannies the elder girl had in her arsenal around the Grey House. She was starting to wonder however, how come no-one ever commented overly much on their absence from whatever it was Magda was hiding her from these times.

“Nah – it’s a’right. They’m got used to some of us not bein’ there.”

Magda had stretched out her legs, taking up most of the space and then, recollecting she had company, pulled her knees back up to her chest. Tilda hadn’t needed to stretch out, but felt it only polite to do so after the space had been so graciously left for her. 

“I won’t be able to get up here much longer.” Magda had rubbed at her torso where the hatch had scraped her on the way through. “Too big.”

“What will you do then?”

“T’won’t matter.” Seeing the puzzlement still lingering in her companion’s expression she’d expanded on her thesis. “Too big to get up here, too big for them. They mostly likes ‘em small.”

It hadn’t taken long for Tilda to make the connection, she was getting quicker at picking up on these little comments now. She’d been unable to prevent the sudden indrawing of breath and consequent exhalation of relief as she’d imagined the cries drifting up from the “parlour” many floors below.

“I’m mostly too big for ‘em anyway.” Magda hadn’t noticed her shudder and had continued on with her explanation. “They don’t like me for some reason. Not pretty enough I suppose. You’m gonna have to be careful though, you comes up here any time I tells you to hide, you hear?”

Tilda had nodded shakily.

It was afterwards, when they’d scrambled down from their cramped and dusty retreat, brushing the cobwebs and pigeon feathers from their frocks as best they could, that Tilda got to hear the tale of Frankie and the Rebellion. Magda had left her to go about her chores with a muttered warning to lie low and keep out of any trouble and Tilda’s feet had taken her to the back gate where the juniors tended to hang out without any real input from her brain. It was a quiet and out of the way spot and as the backroom gossip said The Gang were busy elsewhere no-one was likely to come down amongst them for sport.

Some of the well known faces were missing and though Tilda knew better than to ask (Magda had explained very clearly the consequences of asking _“where?”_ to any occupant of the Grey House) a couple of new girls weren’t quite so savvy. It had been Chunky that had asked. Tilda didn’t know her real name, probably none of them did. In line with unwritten naming laws that existed amongst the girls the unfortunate had been Chunky since she’d arrived and though the diet of the Grey House was helping her shed pounds she’d probably now be Chunky forever.

“S’treats day, innit.”

“Treats?” Chunky’s interest was increased rather than dissipated by Helga’s choice of words. Tilda wondered, looking at the girl, whether she’d been passed over by chance or whether she’d be forever saved from finding out more about the goings on of _Treats Day_ by her unfortunate size.

“Should we have gone?”

In light of this irrefutable evidence Tilda was forced to conclude that Chunky was decidedly not firing on all cylinders.

“Most do.” Helga looked over and caught Tilda hovering at the edge of the group. “Us were wondering why Tonker weren’t there, she don’t usually bother herself for this kinda thing. Guess she found herself something to keep safe.”

Tilda could _feel_ herself blushing. She was about to leave the group and find somewhere else to spend the short time they had left before the supper bell, but something had piqued her interest.

“Why don’t they want Tonker?” 

She waited patiently as Helga looked her over. The girl seemed to be assessing her somewhat, puzzled that she didn’t already know, wondering what kind of relationship the two girls had after all. Eventually Helga, her decision made, shifted her position to face the new listener and opened up the conversation.

“That girl don’t like to be touched and I guess word got round about the last one that tried.”

“What was that?” One of the new girls got the question out before Tilda could open her mouth.

“There was a girl. One of the older ones. She was… _wrong_.”

“Like what?”

“Just wrong.”

After her months in the Grey House Tilda thought she could imagine. The new girl however didn’t understand and began to ask another question before she was nudged into silence by her neighbours. Helga, looking around to check her audience was following nodded and continued with her tale.

“Frankie comes back from being Sent Out this one time and decides she’s taken a fancy to our Tonker cos T was a fighter even then. So she ups and states that T would be her next pet. But Tonker don’t like no one touching her, see? Not like that. So she fights back when she can and there’s hell to pay, but Frankie is a big fucker and with all her mates pitchin’ in there was nothing a kiddlie could do against her.”

Tilda could imagine. Magda might be big and strong enough to intimidate most people who wanted to mess with her, but there would always be someone who was stronger, someone who was able to make her do whatever they wanted. That was another of the rules of the Grey House. However big you made yourself, there would always be someone who could break you.

“Anyroad, T managed to get her hands on a blade, no one knows where, and the next time Frankie came for her she cut that bitch from eyebrow to chin. Blood everywhere I heard, Frankie screaming blue murder and her mates trying to tear our Tonker limb from limb.” Helga smiled reminiscently at the memory of well deserved come-uppance. “Couldn’t last though, _they..._ ” 

“Who?” 

It was the new kid again, not yet au fait with the difference meanings a change in emphasis imbued that simple word.

“The Sisters.“ Chunky and her as yet innocent companions nodded. “They dragged Tonker away and stuck her in _The Hole_ , job done. Frankie swears to get her when she gets out, moves on to pastures new, everyone’s happy.”

Tilda stepped back, thinking to move away quietly before Helga, her tale completed, was moved to ask some questions to Tonker’s current inseparable companion. However, the storyteller had merely drawn breath between chapters and Tilda paused as an aimed throat-clearing reached out to draw her back in.

“Din’t happen that way though, did it? While T’s away all the other kiddlies decided that if Tonker wasn’t going to take it, they weren’t either. So one fine day Frankie tries something as per usual, there’s a massive pile-on and when it’s all broken apart there’s Logan stood over Frankie’s body, blooded knife in hand, with the bitch’s throat slit from ear to ear. I mean the rest of ‘em had a go, one kid one stab, but it was Logan they caught at the end.”

She demonstrated with her hand across her throat.

“What happened?”

“They gave her up to the justices.” Helga paused. “Strung her up in front of the town hall.”

Her audience opened out like the petals of a flower as each listener took a step back in horror.

“They brung her back on the cart and threw her in the pit up in the trees. Said she wasn’t allowed a church burial. They say when Tonker got out and heard about it she went up there one time and dug the girl up, put her to lay properly.”

“No one knows that’s true.” Curly had previously been standing silently on the outskirts of the cluster, only half listening to a tale she’d obviously heard any number of times before.

“Yeah well, you believe whatever you want to believe. I aint asking her, she scares the pants off of me.”

The conversation was lost after that. Chunky moved away with her new cluster of friends and eventually Tilda was left alone by the gate with only the quiet Curly for company.

“She deserved it. Frankie was a bitch, broke my arm one time. Aint no-one who was there thinks Tonker was out of line for doing what she did.” And Curly, conscience eased, shrugged and left her alone to think.

~X~

Tilda didn’t say anything about Frankie that night. Or the night after that. Or the one after that. In fact two weeks went past before she ran into Magda coming back from the untidy copse of trees and drawing a steadying breath asked the question.

“Logan’s up there isn’t she?”

Magda turned to stare at her. 

“What do you know about _that?_ ” 

Behind the anger so quick to kindle whenever the older girl felt herself threatened Tilda thought she could see a hint of fear.

“Some of the girls were talking.” She shrugged. “I only know the bones of it.”

She watched as Magda reined herself in, closing down the anger, shunting if off to only she knew where. It was an uneasy calm, the fury not resolved but merely held back behind flimsy barriers, put to one side for the moment.

“They don’t know hardly nuffin about it. And what they know is mostly lies.”

She appeared to have accepted that this was now out in the open. As she stood there, shifting her weight revealingly from foot to foot. For all she wanted to tell her side of the story Magda non-the-less seemed to be having trouble finding the words she needed to begin. Turning away from those waiting eyes she looked back toward the cluster of trees on the small rise of land. The silence stretched almost to breaking point.

_“She gave me the knife.”_

Her hand in her pocket made a clenched fist on what Tilda knew was the knife in question. Though she couldn’t see her eyes Matilda knew they’d drifted bleak again – looking back into the past that she tried so hard to pretend never happened.

“An’ then when I got out, I heard they’d just thrown her in the dirt up there,” she pointed with a vague finger. “So me an’ Katrina went up and put her to rest properly.” Her voice hitched for a moment but she continued her voice sounding so young as she added “ _she was so little._ ”

Matilda waited, still and unmoving despite the overwhelming need to shift to a more comfortable position. She was desperately aware of how thin the thread was that Magda was so carefully reeling in.

“She was too pretty. _He_ had her, whenever he wanted, she couldn’t stop him.” Magda ran a hand over the short stubble of her scalp, the gesture seeming to ground her somewhat. “Even though she had the knife she couldn’t do him. Even though she _wanted_ to. I never understood that.”

Seeing the pain and confusion so clearly scrawled across that usually inexpressive face Matilda wanted nothing more than to step forward and make it all go away. But Magda was in the flow now, the words pouring out of her.

“She told me not to think, just do it, cos if you start to think about it you can’t...” Magda’s voice trailed away and she drew in a shuddering breath. “She gave me the knife and I did it. It was easy. And then _They_ threw me in _The Hole_. But I knew they would. And _She_ couldn’t get me in there.”

Her acceptance of the punishment was still as calm as it must have been that long ago day when they dragged her away to the darkness.

“And then when I got out…” The girl turned to Tilda, an old bewilderment clouding her eyes, “I don’t know why she did it. I just don’t know. She never said Frankie had her, even from before when she was a small one. I mean she might.” Magda threw out a hand in explanation. “She was always pretty – they like the pretty ones. But she was older, she was up to be Sent Away, she had Katrina. I just don’t understand it.”

She looked away towards the trees, crowns rustling in the light breeze.

“I thought maybe it was cos I did it.” Magda was feeling her way through tangled thoughts now. Confused feelings she’d put away a long time ago, not to be looked at since that jagged time. “Like maybe somehow I made her do it for me.”

_Over the years Tilda would come to realise that this was how Magda worked. That when she did manage to crack open the door to her innermost refuge there was always a lot she needed to say, all the stuff that had been going round and round in her mind desperate to escape._

“I didn’t _need_ her to do it for me.” The distress was obvious in her voice. “I din’t _never_ ask her to do that.”

And there and then Matilda _knew_ she had to get this right. This was one of those rare times when she could _see_ the lie writhing in Magda’s mind, the knot that _they_ had put there tearing the girl apart. She _had_ to find the words that would scythe through the confusion, bringing the clarity that only truth could provide.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Tilda took a breath, using the time to feel her way through what she wanted to say. “Truely Mags, I don’t believe it was anything to do with what happened before.”

She discarded one argument after another, searching for the simple words that would make sense of the uncertainty. Magda was mixed up about a great many things from her time in the Grey House.

“It’s just that sometimes, old stuff – stuff that’s been buried deep and maybe even forgotten - can rise to the surface again, as white hot as it was in the beginning. And when that happens there’s not anything anyone can do. What Logan did, it was something Logan had to do. Something she had to do for herself. Then. At that very moment.”

“She killed that bitch and they hung her for it.”

“I know.” 

Tilda's quiet acknowledgement without pity or condemnation fell into the silence between them

“I hope they burn for that.” 

The chill of the girl’s hate didn’t frighten Matilda. Not anymore. Some things were worth hating.

“After, Kat came to me and gave me all the knives. After we’d laid her out right.” 

Magda, the telling of it easing the tight knot inside, seemed to want to finish the tale.

“Kat?”

“Katrina. She was Logan’s girl.” Magda detoured into an explanation. “Folk don’t just come here cos of what they done. Katrina came out broken - no-one knows why. Meant she was ok in here, _He_ wouldn’t touch her cos she was busted. An’ her and Logan just hung out, you know.”

Standing there, her heart aching for the girl hurting beside her, Matilda thought perhaps she did know.

“And then she came to me.” Magda withdrew her gaze from the beauty around them, settling on the undemanding vista of her feet, pain and confusion in her words. “She gave me Logan’s knife and she said… she said _‘I won’t ruin any of your places’._ ”

“What happened?”

“ _She fell._ ” Magda swallowed, folding her arms tightly over her chest. “ _Logan made her able to fly and when she’d gone Kat just fell out of the sky._ ”

Enough was enough and Matilda decided that she could keep her distance no longer. She slipped a hand into Magda’s arm, resting her head on that stiff shoulder, trying to offer by her physical presence the comfort the girl’s body language was screaming out for.

“They said she’d slipped and buried her in the churchyard with the others. But she hadn’t slipped,” Magda allowed herself to lean against the slim body pressed against her so tightly. “She was always too careful, she wouldn’t have slipped.”

For all her wide vocabulary, Matilda had no words to offer. As they stood there, watching the branches of the trees dance so innocently with the light wind, Tilda heard the exhausted sigh drift out from the tense figure trembling against her supporting presence. A small voice dropped a final simple, tired sentence into the peace of the afternoon. An epitaph for those who should never have been here, innocents undeserving of the fate bestowed upon them.

_“They were my friends…”_


	6. The Inexorability of the Inevitable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the other scene I originally wrote as a stand alone and then later included into the larger arc. I put them about 11/12/13 at this point (research indicates that malnutrition slows the development of the pituitary gland so though they’re old enough, I’m assuming girls in the Grey House don’t pass through developmental stages at the same age as the rest of us).

There are moments in life when everything changes. Times when all the pieces fall into place, when looking around the world brightens into perfect clarity with bold sharp edges as in aching slow motion an ice-cold realisation is finally comprehended.

Looking up she knew.

He may have been good at _“seeming”_ but it was not hard for her to see through him. Not now. Even across the room his excitement was obvious, the stench rising off him in waves.

The decision was already made, had been made since that quiet morning when the small dark headed squint beside her had placed a tiny hand on her arm and made her whole again without words. There was no thinking needed, no long pondering as Tilda was prone to do. 

_Things were, and because of that things had to be done. There was no shame in the doing of them._

It was time.

Rule One had said that Things Were, Things Happen, You Have No Say. But Tilda had taught her Rule Two. Rule Two that had reached down into her darkness and showed her a different way to live. Rule Two was warmth and laughter, a hand in hers and gentle glance from thoughtful eyes catching her by surprise in a busy day. Rule Two was a slender string connecting two people that could not be cheapened or degraded by any place or happening no matter how insidiously filthy.

And Rule Two was all about breaking Rule One.

_Rule Two said You are worth loving._

It had taken her a while to understand the full breadth of Rule Two. But Tilda had persevered, reiterating the statements Magda had stumbled over in incomprehension until one day she realised they’d filtered through and taken up home somewhere deep inside. Tilda had done this, and for Tilda she could do anything.

_This I do all of my own._

Smiling calmly she pivoted and oh so sweetly punched out the Sister. For a long hanging instant there was perfect silence. Across the crowded room Magda Halter looked full into the face of her friend, her companion, _her soul_ , and in that bubble of peace everything was said that had ever or would ever have needed to be said between them.

_For You._

Voices shouted in the confusion, arms grabbing at her, trying to stop her charge. But she was practised. _They’d_ given her that opportunity. Trained her to ignore pain, trained her to resist, all the years they thought they were taming her.

This was living. Fighting like a demon, everywhere and nowhere, impossible to put down.

She reached him in seconds.

_Things were, and because of that some things had to be done. By them as could. For them as couldn’t._

There would be consequences but in that moment she accepted them. Whatever her end would be, however long they took about it, it was magnificently, beautifully, gloriously worth it.

_Of my own, this I do…_

As the blow struck and the darkness rushed up in an explosion of red jagged-edged pain she reached down and found the peace deep inside, the strong anchor point of knowing, really knowing, that it was ok and held on.

_… Beloved._


	7. Consequences

Lying in the dark, shivers racking her form Tonker remembered…

_They had been huddled together against the winter chill; Tilda snuggled in the vee of her legs, leaning back trustingly against her, the rough blanket enveloping them both. Neither girl had even considered suggesting it would be warmer in the attic if they closed the hatch. You couldn’t shut out that view. The fields had been so beautiful under the snow, the bare tree branches standing out starkly against the glitter. The cold air had seemed so fresh and clean somehow and Magda had been breathing it in, taking long slow breaths in the hope that the feeling would last, that she could take it with her back to the world below when their short time of escape was over._

_“Do you reckon the swallow will come back this year?”_

_It would have been an odd way to start a conversation, if the air hadn’t been filled with all the things they weren’t saying with regard to Tilda’s imminent departure from the Grey House._

_“I was thinking,” Tilda had wriggled in her arms, tucking more of the blanket around them. “I’ll miss the spring. You'll be watching the snow melt moving up the mountains with the fresh green spreading out in its wake, hearing the first calves coming down to drink, finding the first nests in the eaves. I won’t get to see that again.”_

_“You’m probably see more on it.” Magda had refused to withdraw her gaze from the bare hills before them. “They’m sendin’ you to a farm any-road, they’ll be calves n that and the plantin’ come spring.”_

_…They hadn’t talked about it, weren’t talking about it at all, ever, for the simple reason that Tonker had decided there was nothing to talk about. Girls got to 12 and then got Sent Out. That was the way of it in the Grey House. They’d had near enough four years. It was enough._

_It would have to be enough._

_She wasn’t going to cry over some stupid kid getting to leave when she had to stay, would probably have to stay forever seeing as Magda Halter wasn’t fit to be Sent Out, wasn’t any use to the world outside the walls. She’d survived here alone before and she’d survive again. Weren't like she wasn’t kept busy anyway, there’d be no time to miss anyone._

_Not that she’d miss the brat anyway. Tonker didn’t miss people. Tonker didn’t care about people. Tonker didn’t **need** people._

_The kid deserved a chance to get out. She was bright and kind and got on well with ‘most everyone. She’d do well wherever she was sent, as soon as folks laid eyes on her they’d be bound to want to keep her. The brat would have a great life, free at last. She would wave the kid off with a clear eye. She might even manage a smile._

_She **definitely** wouldn’t cry._

Alone in the dark tears crept from the corners of her eyes as she lay silent, sliding out from under her closed eyelids to run down the sides of her face and collect in her ears. She reached up to brush the moisture away, forgetting in her exhaustion where she was and once again scraping her knuckles on the brick. The tears were forgotten as she caught her breath, desperately trying to hold back the wave of panic. _No. Not Now. Put it to one side. Take the terror, the claustrophobia, the pure mind-screaming-white-hot-blade of agony and put it away._ She couldn’t let them know. No matter how much she wanted to scream that she would do anything, _anything!_ if only they would _let her out!_ she had to swallow it down. The bastards had been trying forever to break her and she would _NOT_ give them the satisfaction of knowing that they’d finally succeeded. 

She would not scream. _She would not._

Tonker could take anything. She had to remember that. Magda might hate enclosed spaces and fear more than anything the awful confining walls that held her immobile but Tonker had always taken pride in taking the worst the world could throw at her and still finding the strength of hate to spit back into leering faces.

Magda wasn’t any use. Magda was weak and cried over the smallest things. Tonker was just going to have to take charge for a while.

~X~

She prided herself on the fact that she hadn’t made a sound the whole time they’d kept her in there (coughing was a reflex action and consequently didn’t count, though it had left her with a bruised and grazed forehead where she’d kept colliding with the bricks). She’d won again, or at least managed to hide the fact of her loss from them. Overall she was still ahead on points. It was a small victory, but deep inside she felt the warm flicker of a tiny vestige of pride and held onto it tightly. It was likely the only warming she could look forward to in her future.

There was no Tilda waiting for her in her usual spot on the stairs and the Grey House looked subtly different. Tonker knew nothing had actually changed, she wasn’t that stupid, but still... If she’d been a soft kind of girl, (which she wasn’t), she might say that having spent four years looking at these brown walls through Tilda’s eyes, it was a shock to see them through her own. Tonker had never had the imagination to see what Tilda saw when she walked these corridors, but the girl's endless chattering had let her piggyback for a while. It was good to see clearly again though. Misty thinking never got anyone anything. Corridors were just corridors, and doors were just doors and Tonker had jobs to do so she went and did them.

Curly, allocated to the stables in her absence, came over to chat but Tonker didn’t talk to people, everyone knew that, even if small brown-haired girls might have been allowed to be an exception to that rule. She was easily able to ignore the hovering worried face.

“Er.. Tonker? T?”

Curly couldn’t have been addressing Tonker because, as previously stated, Tonker didn’t talk to people. She did however have jobs to do and so she continued working.

“T? It’s about Tilda.”

“Yeah?” 

Under certain circumstances Tonker saw no reason why people couldn’t talk to her.

“She came back.” Curly retreated as that look caught her full in the face. Drawing courage the girl continued on regardless. “They sent her back, she’s teaching – upstairs.”

Tonker had a list of jobs to do. She carried on working. Curly hovered around in case there was anything else but the vicious silence pushed her away and she left Tonker raking fresh straw into the looseboxes. The act of fluffing out fresh straw, filling hay racks and replacing water buckets was soothing. Tonker had always been able to complete her duties. Had always been a hard worker who kept her head down and didn’t look for any favours. Just got the job done. It was easier not to think when you had a job to do. Simpler just concentrate on the work, muscles moving stiffly but easing as warmth spread through her extremities. Best not to think on the other things. Those many complicated things that Tonker didn’t hold with, wouldn’t look at and had safely put to one side and locked away. That way was just stupidity and hurtin’. Thinking was stupid. Thoughts were stupid.

She finished the last of the hayracks and stretched. Looking around and finding the stables empty she conscientiously returned her pitchfork to the rack and set about closing up the stable block, careful to make sure she’d put out every lantern and closed any opened windows. A thorough job, that was the Tonker way. Unbidden, her feet carried her over to the main house and up the side staircase to the second floor. The corridor stretched out empty before her, there was still a good half hour before the bell rang for tea and the kiddlies would be at lessons for at least another 15 minutes of that. Tonker drifted past room after room, heading for the staircase at the far end. Up that flight of stairs was the Senior Washroom where she planned to clean the muck from her hands before dinner.

Something in the second to last classroom caught her attention. Sister Patience was teaching what looked like the parable of the ungrateful son and the big nasty thing with teeth, but that wasn’t what had reached out and stopped Tonker in her tracks. At the back of the class, leaning over a small girl who was chewing industrially on her pencil, was an older girl of about 12 or 13. Tonker reached out and found the solid support of the door-frame. _It wasn't that she was unsteady on her pins,_ she thought as she slid down the wall to stretch long legs across the corridor. It was just that the wall was comfortable, it had been a long day and she was very tired.

When the class came out, the children walking sedately until out of sight of the Sister and then breaking into a squabbling run, Tonker was way up the end of the corridor, perched hesitantly on the stairs. The girl she’d seen didn’t walk out along with the sister and after waiting for the corridor to empty again Tonker walked back down to the classroom. Poking her head around the door she searched the room until her eyes lit on a small disconsolate figure standing in the window, looking down the long curving drive to the gates in the big wall. The girl looked odd and out of place standing there staring out into the darkness. As Tonker watched she put out a hand and ran trembling fingers down the strong mesh that prevented the kids from breaking the expensive glass in the window during any of their silly games. Thin shoulders drooped and a sigh escaped into the quiet of the room. It struck Tonker most strongly that someone needed to keep an eye on this girl. The thought came with an odd sense of déjà vu, as though she’d had this conversation with herself before, but she put the feeling to one side as she began to plan how to keep this kid out of trouble.

“You’m gonna stand there all night or yer gonna want t’eat something?” 

Tonker put aside the “not talking to people” rule for the moment. She’d stepped into the room, but when the girl didn’t respond she was forced to walk over to the window and repeat her question. The girl surprised her then, slipping a hand into hers as they stood side by side, blocking the light from the window and casting a single large shadow on the gravel below.

“Hi.” 

Tilda leant into her tiredly and Magda wrapped a supporting arm around a thin waist, gathering the girl in.

“You were a long time.” 

The words were mumbled into her shoulder and Magda held on as the memory played of the first time, so long ago, that this fragile girl in her arms had said those words.

They’d not wanted this future, those two little girls all those years ago, and neither of them had known then how they’d get from there to here. Eventually she found words, words of apology, words that could express how sorry she was that it hadn't worked out for Til, words of relief at having her friend back at her side. 

_“Sometimes they like to take a long time.”_

The dinner bell rang, echoing through the empty rooms.

~X~

Magda woke coughing, her third bout that night, and found the bed empty and cold. All the girls doubled up in the winter months, it was the only way to survive some nights, and the other occupants of the dormitory had long stopped commenting that those two kept the tradition year round.

Tilda was gone.

Magda was surprised she’d slept through the movement, it was her custom to wake at the slightest noise out of place. Tilda had definitely been there the other two times she’d woken herself with this dratted coughing. The girl had soothed her, rubbing her back until the paroxysm eased and she could drop back into exhausted slumber. _Where was Tilda?_ Magda's chest hurt, she was shivering already, the floor was likely to be freezing and she wanted nothing more than to lie back down and rest her aching head, but Tilda was out there in the dark somewhere. Alone and unprotected.

Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders Magda shuffled off into the gloom.

She found her at last in the tiny book-room off the back corridor. A small huddled lump of misery sat before the glowing embers in the grate, doing something unseen. Magda slipped through the door, closing it safely behind her. Crossing the room she sat herself quietly on the bare floorboards a safe distance from the girl but Tilda completely ignored her, totally absorbed in what she was doing. Shifting to see better Magda frowned in confusion as the hidden activity came into view. Tilda was carefully selecting the longest spills from the collection laid out on the hearth before her, placing the tip into the heart of the embers until a flame grew visible along the thin wood. Once the flame was strong enough the girl pulled it from the fire watching with intense focus as the flickering hunger ate up the spill until the heat threatened her fingers whereupon she dropped it into the grate and began the whole procedure again.

It was at the same time the saddest and the most frightening thing Magda had ever seen.

Unsure what to do she crept closer, settling herself beside the busy figure, her hands clasped around her knees. As the Tilda dropped the latest burnt remainder into the grate she turned her head for a moment, acknowledging Magda's presence with a nod before returning to her task. Her existence accepted, Magda redistributed the blanket fairly over both their shoulders and settled in to wait for inspiration.

Before she could come up with anything however, Tilda began to speak. Beginning with the first trembling steps out beyond the gate she worked her way through the tale with plodding unemotional description, the bald facts dropping one by one into the pool of silence that surrounded them. Listening as quiet words painted their picture of achingly familiar truth across the bland walls, Magda noticed something odd. Tilda only spoke when there was flame was creeping along the thin wood, her low voice fading away as the charcoal was dropped into the grate and not rising again until the new flame grew unsteadily from the still glowing embers.

In all her years in The Grey House Magda had never regretted her lack of words until now. She knew that should their positions be reversed, Tilda would be able to find expression for this terrible tearing understanding of the story Magda had been handed, wrapped in shiny paper as though a gift. The girl she remembered, who could read and write and knew about the way things should be would be able to deal with this lump of sick disappointment that sat heavy and cold in the centre of Magda's chest pressing heavy on her stomach and making it difficult to draw a full breath. That girl would know how to put the pieces back together after the world had shown once again that it didn't care about fairness in its treatment of the undeserving. All Magda could do was lean a head onto that stiff shoulder beside her in silent support. It wasn't enough, but it was all she had.

They sat amongst the remains of the tale as the clock in the hall faintly chimed the quarter hours. Eventually Tilda softly blew out the last spill before it reached halfway toward her hand and said, “I would like to go to bed now.”

They retraced their footsteps through the silent dark corridors, Magda keeping a guiding arm linked into the kid's as she was prone to stumbling and drifting off course as though sleepwalking. When they reached the relative safety of the dorm Magda held up the blankets for Tilda to crawl under and then after she'd climbed in, slipped in behind her and gathered her into protective arms. They lay quiet amongst the snores and snuffles of their neighbours waiting for the warmth to build under their thin covers. Then Tilda started to cry softly, turning over and attempting to climb into Magda, wrapping the taller girl in a flurry of clinging arms and legs as the choking sobs tore their way out from deep inside her. Not knowing what else to do Magda held on, rubbing soft circles on her back as Tilda brokenly cried herself to sleep. 

The next day they went about their jobs as usual, neither commenting on what had passed in the night. But that night once again Magda was woken to find the empty beside her. This time however, she was able to catch Tilda by the arm as she left and the girl even allowed Magda to wrap her gently in a shawl before they crept off into the dark warren of the mill. Following Tilda's confident movements through the unlit corridors Magda was forced to wonder whether Tilda had spent any nights in her bed since her return to The Grey House. Had she been wandering these dark staircases the whole time Magda had been fighting claustrophobia? For all she didn't know exactly how long they'd kept her down there this time, it had felt like weeks. How long had Tilda sat alone with only the flickering flames for company? They arrived at the little book-room before she could fully process that thought. This time Tilda pulled Magda down to sit behind her and allowed her to wrap them both in the shawl. She leant back into Magda's embrace from time to time, both of them watching her careful nursing of the vulnerable flame.

The silence sucked at them both, but Tilda seemed perfectly satisfied with her little splints so it was Magda that spoke first.

“I'm sorry I was so long.” She tightened her hold on the fragile preciousness in her arms. “They had a new toy they wanted to test. I'm not so good with it so they didn't get bored as quick as usual.” The trembling that struck her whenever she thought about the bricks swept over her again but she forced it down. “I tried.”

“I didn't like it.” 

Tilda hadn't said anything the night before about how she felt about what had been done to her, merely covering the bare bones of the facts as they were. Her statement fell into the quiet that wrapped them like a blanket and Magda accepted it as the trusting gift it was. 

“I didn't want him to.” 

She cried softly, tears dribbling silently down pale cheeks as the flickering flames crept along the spindly wood.

“It's okay.” Magda used the fringe of the shawl to wipe away the traces of tears, rocking the girl gently in her arms. “I won't let them take you again.”

“I didn't want it.” She was crying more heavily now. “It hurt and I wanted him to stop and he wouldn't. I was... I was screaming but he wouldn't listen.”

“They don't.”

“I tried to fight him, but they're too strong. They're always too strong.” She hiccuped on the last of her tears and huddled close breathing heavily.

“I know.” Magda didn't have words for where _that_ hurt.

The girl said no more after that, merely sat silent in her embrace as she lit one spill after another, dropping the ash onto the empty hearth. When the last spill went out and they were left watching the embers glowing and fading in the grate Tilda sighed, shivered and followed willingly when the older girl stood and held out a hand to guide her back upstairs. Magda put her to bed and slipped in beside her, pulling the blankets over them both. After a moment's quiet Tilda turned, wrapping her in the frantic grip of arms and legs as tremors ran up and down her thin frame. Once again Magda rubbed comforting circles over her back until she heard the girl's breathing lengthen and deepen into sleep.

It took a week of rising with Tilda in the night and sitting with her as she tended her uncertain flame before the girl managed to sleep through. There were nightmares now and then, but amongst the inmates of the Grey House nightmares were considered normal fare. As Tilda came back to herself and began to take notice of the things around her she began to pay slightly more attention to Magda's cough. Careful questioning and even more careful patient listening eventually drew out the details about the new cold water treatment and the long nights spent shivering on cold stone in saturated thin clothes. Magda didn't tell her about the box.

The nights were difficult, Magda's temperature creeping up despite the medicine Tilda had managed to steal. She was thrust into deep nightmares where she was back in the box, screaming silently over and over until Tilda shook her awake, struggling to full consciousness in a frantic battle against confining blankets. Those nights, surrounded by safe darkness she felt her way towards admitting that she couldn't bear this one, how the walls were holding her in. Held in Tilda's gentle embrace she could whisper of the paralysing fear with it's acrid stripe of claustrophobia and dare to voice the awful terrifying knowledge that they had beaten her and soon they would know.

It couldn't last forever though and with the help of the medicine and Tilda's care she soon picked up, the raw pain that had followed every breath fading until it was nothing more than a memory. The nightmares, though they did ease, lasted a good while longer. Tilda said one day that they took it in turns, swapping the right to demand comfort as first one and then the other woke on a swallowed scream. Eventually both sets of nightmares faded as well, minds recovering whilst bodies prepared for the next challenge.

~X~

Unfortunately Magda couldn't keep her promise that she wouldn't let them take Tilda again. She tried, keeping the girl out of sight as much as she could, but it was never really an option. She did manage to teach the girl some things though, in the few months of peace they did have. The next time she was Sent Out, Tilda broke the man's nose and used her knowledge of metallurgy to blow a hole in the side of the boiler in the cellar as she left. It was only due to the insomnia of one of the kitchen maids that the whole place didn’t burn to the ground. She got a week in _The Hole_ for her troublemaking but the season had turned to a balmy spring so it wasn't so bad. 

When she got out, Magda carved a small explosion in the beam alongside the date and a representation of _himself_ and they sat dangling their legs out of the attic hatch and cursed his family until the 16th generation. They used a curse that Tilda had found in the bastard's library, so it wasn’t a completely wasted stay.

Over time Magda got better at carving explosions, flames and in one case a fortuitous collision of snow and red-hot fuel that seared all the paint off a very old decorated ceiling. They got more inventive with the cursing as well.

Tilda could never give voice to the dark things except when the flame was licking along slender spills and Tonker was still needed from time to time when _they_ decided that Magda was getting too uppity. But there were occasional moments here and there when such things could almost be forgotten and they could be children again. The children who’d played in the dust of their dreams and found such restricted joy acceptable.

They were in a holding pattern and they knew it. 

But why look to a painful future before you need to? When that future is barrelling its way towards you at full pelt and there’s nothing you can do to change it no matter how ingenious or strong you are? Take the blessing of today. Live it to its fullness. 

Eat, drink and if you can, be merry. For tomorrow? Tomorrow we die.

~X~


End file.
